


this is the longest night

by taddymasonLLC



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 21:50:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12067656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taddymasonLLC/pseuds/taddymasonLLC
Summary: President Morty, unraveled.





	this is the longest night

Somewhere along the way, he lost sight of what he wanted.

* * *

 

He’s always liked Rick’s hands around his neck.  Rick has bad circulation, and his fingers are cold and boney.  The skin there is thick and hard like a piss-choked catheter, and each fingerpad is smooth and free of fingerprints.  

Morty’s hands are also smooth, free of fingerprints.  He holds onto Rick, wherever he can.  Beneath Rick’s touch, right under the thumb, Morty’s pulse thrives and he feels so, so, so alive.  

Rick makes the best noises when he fucks, low, ugly, desperate things that scrape up the back of his throat and stutter with his hips flush against Morty’s ass.  Morty gets hard just thinking about it sometimes, the noise, the vulnerability of it.  It’s jerk-off fantasies number one through seventy; Rick’s _oh baby, oh baby, oh_ to the point he’s almost crying, like he’s lost.  

“Say my name.”  He wants to hear it.  He’s heard his name out of Rick’s mouth so much, but there’s something special about it when it’s like this.  It’s the vulnerability, the need.  Morty chases it like a high.

“Your honor,” Rick snarls, spit landing on Morty’s face when he does. “Mr. President.”

“No,” Morty says, and Rick squeezes his neck a little bit tighter so his voice hitches a couple octaves, goes paper thin. “Say my name, Rick.”

“Morty,” Rick says, grunts with the slap of skin on skin, hands around Morty’s neck, and Morty’s eyelids flutter closed.  

“Yeah,” he says tightly.  It’s like coming home every time.  “Again.”

“Morty,” Rick says, stutters this time, presses his sweaty head against Morty’s and lets his hips snap forward again mean and rough and welcome.  “Morty.”

Morty gasps, raspy-thin and satisfied.  He’s in control.  This moment is his, and he soaks in it.  

“You’re a little shit, I ever tell you that?” Rick whispers, mouth wet against his ear.  He has, but not this Rick.  Another one, definitely.  

Morty comes when his vision starts to black around the edges.  He isn’t afraid.  Rick unloads all over his chest saying his name, and he feels better than ever.  This is him, brand new, remade.  He’s been born a thousand times, but he feels good about this one.  He thinks this is the time that’s gonna stick.  

 

* * *

 

Later, Rick will say, “Morty, my Morty, beautiful, you’re beautiful, Morty,” and Morty will shoot him clean between the eyes.

Morty is his own.  He doesn’t belong to anyone else.

 

* * *

He’s got Rick between his legs, starchy hair between his fingers.

“Do you love me?” Morty asks.  

“Y-yeah,” Rick replies, but his hands hover about an inch away from Morty’s arms.

“You’re not gonna catch on fire,” Morty says.  He’s normal.  He’s _normal_.  There are a lot of Mortys who are so many things, and he is none of them.  He’s fine.  He’s perfect.  “You can touch me.”

“Should I?” Rick says.  His hands tremble.  He’s bottom of the barrel.  Morty’s had better.  

“You should do a lot of things,” Morty says.  “Please touch me.”

 

* * *

 

“Baby,” Rick says.  He’s a monster of Morty’s own design.  He’s perfect.  “You wanna smoke these fools?”

“Yeah,” Morty says, watching C-137 climb out of their ship over the monitor.  “I really, really do.”

 

* * *

 

For a very long time, it’s them against the multiverse.  

“Baby,” Rick calls him, presses kisses to the crown of his head, lets his hand trace from one of Morty’s shoulders to the other, “baby.  You did so good.  You did great.”

“It doesn’t hurt?” Morty says, touching the stitches on his forehead.  They’re neatly done, precise.  Rick is good with his hands.  Morty wants to be even better.  

“You did perfect,” Rick says.  “I’m all yours.”

* * *

 

It’s hard when he finds out there are Mortys out there who also have a Beth and a Jerry and sometimes a Summer.  They have Jessicas, and they have a lot of other things too that Morty has never known, and now he feels like he’s outgrown and doesn’t want.  

But he does want.  Just a little bit.  

Rick holds him tight from behind, and he says, “you’re gonna be okay.”

 

* * *

 

Rick puts his hands on Morty’s neck to check his pulse, tilt his head from side to side.  It feels nice, comforting.  Morty has always liked Rick’s hands on his neck.  He was worried he wouldn’t anymore.

“Well, your vitals check out,” Rick says eventually.  He’s flipping through a series of x-rays.

“It’s my brain that’s the problem,” Morty says.  “It’s not going to- I know how this works.  I-I-I’m not going to be able to protect you.  I’m not–”

“You’re smart,” Rick says plainly.  “That’s fine.  I don’t want the protection anyway.”

Morty doesn’t say anything.  What good is he for?  His worth has been instilled into him time and time again.  “You don’t want the protection?”

“No.  I want a partner.”  Rick takes a big swig out of a flask he’s been hiding in his jacket pocket. “You in?”

 

* * *

 

The council says it’s gonna be different this time, and Morty wants to ask exactly what they mean by that.  He just wants to be his own, and he wants to be safe, and he wants to feel like it’s not his fault and he wants to feel like everything is going to be okay, that he’s going to be okay.  He wants to be okay.  

 

* * *

 

Rick mostly rides him instead of the other way around, because he’s so small.  He’s tight and Rick sneers at his figure and his asshole and his dick that’s sort of started to make progress into becoming something in the face of adolescence that makes Morty’s body feel hot with both shame and pride.  He’s not sure anymore what he’s feeling when Rick’s got him down, got him against scratchy sheets making him come and come and come, making his dick sore, making his wrists sore and his eyes tired, and mostly he doesn’t have to feel anything, because he isn’t really there for it, it’s not like some oral exam, it’s not like a performance where he’s an active participant.  

Rick mostly rides him.  Morty dreams of the sea.  Waves licking against his feet and a dark, dark sky overhead, and warm summer sea salt air.  

It’s nice being young.  His dick can get off and his head can be somewhere else, dreaming.

 

* * *

 

Rick dies with multiple shots to the chest outside a federation outpost.

“You piece of shit,” he says, bloody fingers clinging to his t-shirt.  “You were supposed to protect me.  What good are you for if you can’t fucking protect me?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know,” Morty cries, and he feels a hand on his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Rick dies on a planet with five moons near a river that might as well be a fountain of youth.  

“You’re going to be okay,” says a Gromflomite, reaching out a claw.  Morty kicks away from him, because he knows that he isn’t.  He knows all about the re-education centers that the federation runs. 

“Please,” Morty says, “I, I, I-”

“Not so fast mother fucker,” says a voice behind Morty after the shriek of a portal opening, and then the Gromflomite is peppered with bullets, and there’s a hand on Morty’s shoulder.

 

* * *

 

Rick dies.

 

* * *

 

Rick kisses him, just to see how it feels.  Just to test something out.

 

* * *

 

Rick dies.

 

* * *

 

Rick makes breakfast.  

“How do you like your eggs?” he asks.  He’s even wearing an apron.  His kitchen looks like something out of the fifties, vinyl orange stools with a spackled formica countertop table.  It’s strangely comforting, the way the sun filters through the linen curtains and blocky slats over the sink, where a lonely potted plant hangs.

“Over hard,” Morty replies.  The stools are so high he can kick his feet.

“Fucking weirdo.”

Rick has music on in the next room, and it feels both loud and soft.   _My prayer is to linger with you, at the end of the day, in a dream that’s divine_ , sings the doo-wop band.  It’s complimented by the sound of coffee percolating, eggs frying, the nervous toe shuffle that Rick does in his worn-out slippers.  

“You, y-y-you like eggs that might as well be brains, huh?” Morty says, trying to sound smart.  He’s trying to be funny.

“I like eggs with flavor that don’t taste like the bottom of a pan,” Rick says, and he looks Morty in the eye when he leans down in front of him and pushes a burnt mountain of egg onto Morty’s plate.  But he’s smiling.  It’s playful.  Rick slides him a bottle of hot sauce, and a basket of toast, and turns back to his pan where he’s frying a second batch of eggs.

All his life, Morty’s wanted to belong.  He’s wanted to be, he’s wanted something definitive and good.  It’s what he deserves.  He’s so smart.  He keeps losing Ricks regardless, watching them get mowed down by laser machine guns, or walk into set traps since before he could remember.  Since he could walk, he’s been stepping around mines.  

Maybe, he thinks.  He takes a bite of toast, and it’s perfect--best ratio of butter to bread, good color without charring anything--Maybe, this is where he belongs.  

  


**Author's Note:**

> The BIGGEST DREAM was to write a story that could be read front-to-back or back-to-front. Not sure if I got it here, but I hope it reflects well on the most recent episode, and I hope the format works (try reading it both ways)!


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